by Jenny Old
‘All right, all right…just say “please”!’
‘Put it back on! Back on!’
I was very relieved when we hit the open road, where I could have a break and go back to dreaming. And after two thousand kilometres, I had it sorted.
We sailed into Inverell for the weekend. Rick was to be groomsman for a schoolfriend, Jack—the one who’d worn the black bow tie at our wedding. We stayed with friends who offered Bessie garage space to rid their drive of this unsophisticated vehicle with curtain rods and dual windscreens.
On the morning of our departure we found Bessie covered in fluorescent flowers with a note from our friends: You are going to need flower power to get you home in this car.
Rick was mortified. ‘If we break down on the Beef Road,’ he said, ‘no one will stop to help us.’
But I loved the look and thought it enhanced Bessie.
On our journey north, a large rock thrown up by a truck’s wheels broke the windscreen on my side. We then encountered a plague of very big, woody grasshoppers that poured into the car and smacked me in the face. To protect myself, I held up a velvet cushion—I’m not sure why we had it in the car, but I was grateful for it, even though I was now unable to view the passing scenery. ‘Don’t worry, mate,’ said my optimistic husband, ‘we’ll get another windscreen in Longreach.’ Even I knew the chances of replacing a windscreen on such an old vehicle in the bush would be remote.
We bunny-hopped into Longreach because the gearstick operator was a bit too preoccupied with her velvet cushion to remember to take the binder twine off: ‘Gearstick, gearstick!’
The first person we saw was Rick’s groomsman and best friend, Donal McDonald, who was walking along the main street. Donal and Rick had jackerooed together in Queensland, and I’d immediately warmed to Donal’s quiet ways and sense of humour. We honked our horn and waved frantically, but Donal just stared, then turned away.
‘Hey, Donal,’ Rick called, ‘it’s us!’
He finally recognised the passengers in the funny old car covered with fluorescent daisies and missing half a windscreen.
‘Chief,’ he said to Rick, ‘you can’t take Jen all the way to McAllister with a broken windscreen. We have to get it replaced.’ But as I’d predicted, this wasn’t possible in Longreach and probably not in many places in Australia for a car of Bessie’s vintage.
We adjourned to the pub for ice-cold beers and more laughter. Meanwhile, the temperature soared to forty-five degrees outside. Climbing back into Bessie, I thought that at least the broken windscreen would allow good airflow.
Donal waved us farewell, shaking his head in wonderment at the sight of us.
On the last leg of our journey, Bessie was constantly boiling in the severe heat. Rick made the decision to remove her bonnet to allow for better air circulation. We sadly left part of our dear old car’s body, covered with daisies, under a tree, feeling disappointed that her aesthetics were depleted: she looked like a toothless monster.
Black thunderclouds were rolling in, and Rick was concerned that we’d get stuck on the forty-kilometre dirt road on the way into McAllister. He’d been nursing Bessie carefully all the way, but now decided I could drive. I put the pedal to the metal and the old girl responded by not boiling. All she’d needed was a bit of speed. I might add that Rick was hopeless with the velvet cushion and the binder twine.
Finally we drove up to the Ridge. We were home.
Paul greeted us with a huge bear hug and broad smile, and we were overjoyed to see him again. My beloved labrador from Lauriston, Rorie, was also there to greet us. Paul had brought him to McAllister after the wedding, and he’d settled in beautifully to his new home. Rorie and little Sam, the miniature dachshund, were an unlikely pair but already the best of friends.
The rain fell down three hours later. A close shave.
The monsoons had arrived.
During the past few months, Rick and Paul had been building a log cabin for our sleeping quarters. I’d imagined a rather rustic structure, but instead, to my astonishment, I saw that the Gidyea Hut was much more interesting than promised: it looked a bit like a Japanese pagoda. Paul had been working very hard on his own to have it habitable for our return. It was still a work in progress, but I was impressed. The two-storeyed building had gauzed walls on the top floor offering a 360-degree view from our marital bedroom. Downstairs would be a second bedroom and an office.
Rick and I would be sleeping on two single iron beds of different height and length until he could build a wooden base for a Dunlop rubber mattress.
In the middle of our first night, a massive storm hit. The rain poured through the gauze walls, drenching us both. At least this cooled us off.
‘Don’t worry, mate,’ said my chivalrous husband, ‘I’ll get the tarpaulin we bought to make into blinds and cover us with that.’
Soon we were encased in the green tarp with rain beating on us, but we slept the sleep of the young (and exhausted).
Rick woke me up when it was still dark. ‘Don’t move an inch!’
An enormous puddle of water was lying between us. I’d thought it was Rick’s warm body. He carefully extricated himself while I did as I was told and didn’t move.
After he’d bailed the puddle out with a bucket, I was allowed to emerge from our water bed. We stared down at our damp naked bodies—we were both green from the tarpaulin. Quite a sight. It took some time for the colour to come off as it had baked into our skin from the heat under the canvas.
After we’d eaten breakfast that morning, I had so many things I wanted to do right away that didn’t all fit in with the men’s priorities. We agreed, however, that making blinds for the Gidyea Hut was a good start to the endless list of jobs to be done.
Once Bessie was unpacked, we set up my basic little Singer sewing machine, and I faced the daunting task of sewing the thick and unforgiving green tarp. I looked at the seemingly endless metres of canvas and wondered where to begin. I’ve never been the best or most enthusiastic seamstress, but the thought of another night covered in the tarp motivated me.
My poor Singer managed to wade through the thick canvas, and after many, many hours of frustration, with patient encouragement from Rick, we had one complete blind. Three days later we had four blinds rolled up with ropes attached to pull them tight when they were lowered.
‘Great job!’ said Rick. I could never have completed the job without him.
The sewing machine was carefully stored for a well-earned rest and the hope that blind-making would be the most difficult task that it—and its owner—would be expected to perform ever again.
In the night, we waited for our first storm to test the blinds. When it came, with all the ferocity of a cranky monsoonal trough, we lowered the blinds, tied the ropes tightly and retired to bed, hoping for a dry and comfortable night. All went well as far as waterproofing, but the noise of the flapping canvas was incredible.
‘Just pretend we’re sailing in the Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race,’ said Rick with a grin. This comment did nothing to give me soporific thoughts. I dislike sailing intensely, having been stranded with Rick in Pittwater prior to our engagement, at shark-feeding time with an overturned sixteen-foot skiff, waiting to be rescued; we’d also happened to be in the landing strip for seaplanes. This memory didn’t help rock me to sleep.
But we survived the night, and many more, without being drenched or turning green.
Rick and I continued to cook, eat and chat with Paul in the shed, but it was lovely to have our own little place to return to at night. The only thing was, I found it a long walk to the drop-through loo.
I was desperate to start a garden. To begin our lawn around the Gidyea Hut, we collected couch-grass runners from L-Creek Bore, where they grew wild, and planted them in the moist soil. Under the constant humidity and rain, they grew prolifically. Soon I had a dense growth.
‘How will I trim the grass without a lawnmower?’ I asked Rick.
‘Try these,’ he replie
d, as he held up a pair of shears.
And that is how I ‘mowed’ our lawn for many months until we were able to buy a mower. As the grass expanded and thickened it was backbreaking work, but I was proud of my efforts.
At the same time, my menagerie was growing.
The men had returned from checking fences with a very young brumby foal for me to raise. I called her Tracy. A temperamental little thing, she was soon joined by several poddy calves, eight goats, three pigs and two dogs all vying for my attention—along with Rick and Paul.
Rick surprised me one day. He arrived home from Inverleigh and called out, ‘Quick, mate, come and have a look at your wedding present!’
I’d read in the marriage etiquette book that a groom should give his bride a gift to ‘adorn herself or her dressing table’, but I’d held no expectations in that department.
‘Coming!’ I called back, excited and curious.
Rick was leading a very pretty grey mare. All thoughts of a negligee and silver hairbrushes were gone when I saw this beautiful creature. I called her Bacardi. Now I had my very own stockhorse, and she was a joy to ride. With my Cuban-heeled boots, I was finally equipped to be a ringer.
I was in residence as Mrs Old at McAllister. The excitement of the wedding and honeymoon was behind me. I could feel my permanence more strongly than ever: I knew I was really home.
It was never easy for us to collect our mail, but in the wet season there was the possibility of storms and being bogged on the thirty-kilometre drive to Inverleigh. I had to rely on Rick and Paul to oblige, and neither was enthusiastic. Paul was more sympathetic, though, and agreed to attempt the trip. His efforts were thwarted by overflowing creeks and an impassable boggy road. I tried to hide my disappointment.
‘Don’t worry, mate,’ he said, seeing my downcast face, ‘I’ll try the other way, via the Beef Road.’
He made it to Normanton, then on to Mount Isa, a further 500 kilometres, to collect some essentials. He returned five days later with a bulging mailbag. I was ecstatic.
‘Thank you a million times over,’ I said, hugging him. The news from home meant so much to me and I didn’t know when I’d receive the next lot—probably not for months.
I spent hours opening my letters, devouring every page slowly and carefully, then re-reading them over and over. There were masses of Christmas cards.
Christmas? I hadn’t given it a thought.
Christmas Day, 1969. The entry in Rick’s diary: All day off celebrating Christmas.
We couldn’t call our families, and the road to Inverleigh was impassable. Christmas Day felt very strange.
We made a lunch of corned beef and salad—the same lunch we had every day. We were all thinking of our families and, despite our best efforts, beginning to feel quite miserable. It was oppressively hot. We tried not to think of air-conditioning or the surf at Palm Beach. We had to keep busy.
‘Let’s go for a ride,’ suggested Paul.
‘Good idea,’ Rick and I chorused.
So, for something completely different, we enjoyed a ride to check the cattle and our mood lifted. It was really just another day.
Boxing Day was memorable because I finally produced successful loaves of bread. I’d persevered every day for months with miserable results: this time, we devoured both loaves and relished every mouthful. Even the tinned butter and melon jam tasted delicious. Success at last.
‘See if you can do that again tomorrow,’ Paul and Rick suggested.
Once I’d had success, I wondered how I could have possibly failed for so long. It was an art.
And so the year ended and another began. The heat was enervating. The humidity was one hundred per cent, and the light relief we enjoyed while the rain fell was soon wiped away as we dripped with perspiration. I was beginning to understand the meaning of ‘going troppo’.
‘If you work harder and move faster,’ Rick advised, ‘you create your own breeze and don’t feel so hot.’
‘I might be going troppo, but I’m not stupid,’ I retorted.
I loved the tropical downpours and always stood in them to refresh. I’d been brought up with extreme heat in Deniliquin, but it was a dry heat. This humidity didn’t let up, day and night. A siesta was impossible—it was just too hot.
Around this time, I began to suspect I was pregnant. The birth control pill was quite a new invention, and my family doctor had recommended I commence taking it two months before the wedding so he could monitor any reaction. I’d become progressively more nauseated on our honeymoon, and Rick had suggested I throw the pill away rather than feeling unwell: ‘We’ll do something when we get home.’ I’d agreed.
However, now I was feeling seriously unwell—with morning sickness.
The men had killed a beast and returned to the shed to butcher the meat. I was having difficulty dealing with the hot, dripping lumps of meat, and when Paul handed me the brains in a dish to clean and cook, I departed in a hurry.
I then informed Rick that we needed to tell Paul why I was reacting so strangely. I was definitely pregnant.
‘Hey, that’s fantastic, mate,’ Paul responded enthusiastically.
Rick and I were feeling rather nervous. This pregnancy was way ahead of any family planning—we hadn’t even discussed children. And we had a few concerns: no house, no phone, no family or friends within two thousand kilometres, impassable roads, no doctor, no car. No money. Not looking good.
But the thought of a baby was exciting.
‘We’ll be right, mate, we’ll work something out,’ Rick assured me.
At least this put pressure on him to build a house. It may have taken years otherwise.
Agatha, our sow, gave birth to twelve piglets, reminding me that new life is a gift. Then I received a gift that would bring me great joy for years to come.
One afternoon I was elected to remain home to send telegrams, while Rick drove off to check some cattle.
‘Quick, Jen, quick!’ he called on his return. ‘Come and see what I have for you.’
‘Hang on, I’m busy!’ I replied, in the middle of dressing a horse’s infected leg while battling severe nausea.
‘No, you have to come now.’
‘Okay…okay…’
Rick was still in the driver’s seat. I spotted something under his akubra in the passenger seat: a newborn brumby foal, sitting quietly beneath the big hat. He looked at me with his huge brown eyes, without fear, and I fell in love with him.
Rick had found the tiny, injured foal caught in a fence. Seeing no sign of the mother, Rick had disentangled him and carefully put him on the front seat.
I called him Topaz Andre Darcy—I have no idea why. From that day on, we were best mates. This little fellow knew I was there to help him, standing quietly while I dressed the deep cuts across his chest from the barbed wire. He must have been in pain and frightened, but he never showed it. He gazed at me with his big brown eyes, showing total trust.
Unfortunately, he would never drink the milk substitute I was feeding Tracy and the poddy calves, which meant he became stunted with a big pot belly and rough coat. He was not pretty. And he would wander off, sometimes for two days, then suddenly reappear to have his wounds dressed. He’d stay and follow me around the garden for days, then disappear again.
Topaz Andre Darcy was such a personality. He kept me company through the nausea, sweat and hard work of my first pregnancy.
Simple White Bread
Making bread was one of my biggest challenges, but once I had the knack I produced four double loaves every day. The smell of freshly baked bread ensured there was never a crumb left.
Makes 4 large loaves
INGREDIENTS
12 cups white baker’s flour
4 tablespoons dried yeast
6 tablespoons castor sugar
4 teaspoons salt
1 litre milk or water, warmed
4 tablespoons canola oil
METHOD
Combine the dry ingredients in a large bow
l. Make a well in the centre and pour in the warm milk or water and oil. Mix with your hands until a dough forms.
Turn the dough out onto a floured bench and knead until silky and smooth. Place the dough back into the oiled bowl, cover and allow it to stand and rise for approximately 45 minutes.
Tip the dough out onto the floured bench, punch down to remove the air, then knead until the dough is elastic and smooth. Divide into four even portions. Shape each portion into a smooth, round ball. Place in four large (50 x 25 cm) greased bread tins. Allow to rise again, approximately 45 minutes.
Preheat the oven to 180 degrees Celsius (160 degrees Celsius, fan-forced).
Place the tins in the oven and bake for approximately 30 minutes, or until the bread is golden and sounds hollow when you tap the base. Cool on wire racks.
9
An Urgent Need for a House
Rick had spent a lot of time planning our house, designed to be simple and cost-effective. It would consist of two bedrooms, one bathroom, a lounge room, kitchen, laundry and storeroom, with wide verandahs on the north-eastern and south-western sides.
We needed three thousand handmade bricks to complete the project. With luck, we had met a local couple who’d made bricks and built their own home, and they kindly offered to lend us their brickmaking machine. With their advice on how to operate it, we returned home enthusiastic about the task ahead. The next day we started our first batch of a hundred and fifty bricks. This was a momentous occasion. Grinning from ear to ear, we posed for a photo with the machine, the pile of sand, shovels and cement.
Mixing began. We poured the cement mixture into the moulds, pressed it and carefully lifted it out on the steel plate, then carried it to dry on wooden planks. Several hours later we admired our first batch of a hundred and fifty bricks, neatly lined up.
‘Congratulations,’ I said, taking more photos, ‘we did well.’
Out of the blue, a small, very serious-looking black cloud hovered.
‘Oh no,’ I moaned, ‘it’s going to rain.’